


A Body Made for Sin

by TheWillowBends



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Also Boundaries, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Mazikeen, Chloe Decker Doesn't Know, Chloe Decker Engages in Ill-Advised Work Relationships No Matter the Universe, Chloe Decker is Not a Detective, Consensual Sex, Coworkers to lovers, Drama, Dramedy, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Fuckruary 2021 (Lucifer TV), Fuckruary 2021: Size Queen, Humor, Hurt Chloe Decker, Kinky sex, Lost dreams, Lots of Sex, Lots of it, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Has Daddy Issues, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) is Bad at Feelings, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) is a Little Shit, Lucifer Morningstar Gets Around, Lucifer Morningstar is a Slut, Lucifer Morningstar is the Devil (Lucifer TV), Masturbation, Mother-Daughter Relationship, One Big Call Out For American Culture, POV Chloe Decker, Porn Sex, Porn Star Lucifer, Pornography Sets, Romance, Sex, Sex Work, Slow Burn, The Porn Star AU, The Sluttiest Slut, Trixie Espinoza & Lucifer Morningstar Bonding, canon AU, idiots to lovers, like...a lot, porn industry, sexy sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:29:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29761053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWillowBends/pseuds/TheWillowBends
Summary: Chloe Decker is years removed from the industry, having closed the door on her past with lock and key.  These days, she's just a boring set technician and overworked mother trying to navigate the labyrinth of modern coparenting, the gig economy, and a recovering mother in remission.  Having long reconciled herself to the fact that life didn't quite shake out the way she planned, she keeps her eyes forward to the future, refusing to get caught up in the stumbles of the past.But when one Lucifer Morningstar, an up and coming player in the porn industry, starts to pursue her, trying to get her back in front of the camera, Chloe finds herself at the centerpiece of an unlikely story featuring a wild cast of characters, the strangest of all being a man who insists he's the devil and charms like a snake.  Looks like life isn't done throwing curve balls her way.
Relationships: Chloe Decker & Lucifer Morningstar, Chloe Decker & Penelope Decker, Chloe Decker & Penelope Decker & Trixie Espinoza, Chloe Decker & Trixie Espinoza, Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 50
Kudos: 116





	1. The First Offering

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venividivictorious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venividivictorious/gifts).



> Based on a prompt by the incredible Lassie, known as venividivictorious on Ao3.

It started with a letter.

Chloe had dropped Trixie off at school, compliments of a bus driver that hadn’t deigned to stop after she arrived thirty seconds late, no matter how many inelegant arm cartwheels of desperation she had made trying to run it down. She had resigned it to a loss once the bus turned a bend and the driver threw her a mocking wave, which made her ground her teeth but did the proper work of turning her around and marching her daughter back to the house to get the car. Trixie knew a minefield when she saw one and had been on her best behavior, which had earned her a chocolate donut on the way there while her mother shotgunned an espresso spiked coffee and silently fumed in the driver’s seat.

She was still nursing her grudge against taxpayer-funded professionals when she pulled up to the post office, tossing off a strangled greeting to the postal worker before she beelined to her P.O. box and emptying its contents into her bag. It contained its usual assortment of banal white envelopes and surreptitiously wrapped packages, the sheen of a fine, metallic envelope only catching her eye briefly before she dumped it in along with the rest. Filming was starting late today, but she was still working with a tight enough timetable that she hadn’t bothered to look at any of it until she got home and tossed it on the counter, which is of course where her mother found it.

Penelope had been thoughtful enough to start brewing her a pot of coffee with the expectation of her stopping by before work, which, in all likelihood, should have been her first warning. The vampire queen herself came swanning into the kitchen at half past eight, face already done and hair perfectly coiffed: the common vanities, certainly, but not any Chloe was keen to deny her mother two years into remission. She wondered idly if there was another reason for it, but she knew better than to ask outright; her mother was a poor enough agent of subterfuge that it would reveal itself one way or another.

“Oh, what do we have here?” she said, scanning the haphazard pile of envelopes Chloe had dropped on the table.

“Nothing for you, unfortunately, if that’s what you’re looking for. I only had my key on me when I swung by the post office.”

Penelope pouted a little prettily for a moment but rediscovered her cheer easily enough when she picked up the first envelope. There was never a boundary between mother and daughter that she didn’t delight in plowing right over when the mood struck her. Knowing there was little she could do to stop the typhoon that was Penelope Decker, Chloe just shrugged and rolled with it.

“You can open them if you want to. It’s mostly work stuff. Doubt there’s nothing in there of interest,” she said, pointing at her mother in dire warning, “but don’t get upset if you find something you don’t like.”

Peneloped hummed happily to herself, using the sharp edge of a perfectly manicured nail to open the business size envelope on the top of the pile that had a tiny, professional grade graphic of a woman making an obscene gesture nestled in the top corner. "It's from some place called Tongue 'n' Cheeks Production," she said, looking it over curiously.

Chloe grimaced. "It's probably a heads up that they're digitizing their archives. A lot of the early 2000s stuff is being back loaded to the website."

Glancing over, she saw Penelope skim through the letter, then nod, verifying her suspicions. She didn't add that it likely meant any royalties, few as they were, would be drying up since studios made an art form out of suspending rights agreements as they found loopholes in the media format stipulations. Chloe supposed she should count her blessings: she had been one of the few in the industry with the connections, exposure, and savvy to even be able to negotiate contracts at that level. The financial implications still worried her for the foreseeable future, but she supposed that was a bridge she would have to cross soon enough.

Penelope, perpetual busybody, tossed the letter to the side. The two under it were soon to follow, since they were mostly boring correspondence, one of which contained a royalty check for $1.37, something that made both of them laugh as Penelope read it out loud.

"You can now retire comfortably, sweetheart."

"I'd probably save money on ink refusing to sign it," she said dryly, which prompted more laughter from Penelope. In this, mother and daughter could commiserate: she had known her fair share of checks not worth the paper they were printed on.

Her mother was in good humor when she read out the next one, a plain, nondescript envelope with a handwritten address. A crudely drawn heart was colored in where the return address should be. Chloe knew it was fanmail before Penelope even opened it, especially because it was addressed to her old pseudonym, _Angel Love_.

"You may want to skip that one," she warned.

"Why ever? It looks like somebody put time into it."

“I’m telling you it’s best for both our sakes.”

“Pish posh,” she said, opening it and carefully pulling it free.

Chloe shrugged and pursed her mouth, having well-founded suspicions of what her mother would find in there and knowing she wasn’t ready for it on only one cup of coffee. "If you insist, be my guest, but you’re going to regret it.”

Penelope unfolded it and, straight from the first line, Chloe knew she had died and woken up in the Inferno. Hell, as it turned out, wasn't a room with no exit, but it _was_ other people, namely the woman who had birthed and raised her narrating the erotic fantasies of some forty-something adult man's titillating regard of her tits and ass.

"Dear Miss Angel Love, goddess among mortals, passionate pleasure flower of the pornographic halls of fame — ”

“Oh my God.”

Her mother was already grinning, and she hated her for it.

“I write to you now,” Penelope continued, “my pen flowing with the poetry of the most ardent and carnally enchanted admirers — ”

"Mom, _please_ ," she begged, wishing the earth would open up and swallow them, "I am begging you to stop."

But Penelope did not stop, not as Unknown but Ardent Admirer of Chloe Decker and the Thesaurus described the stunning beauty of her perfect visage, which could apparently put Aphrodite to shame, the endless expanse of her long, lean legs, and most importantly, the most divine artifact of her twenty-something breasts, forever etched in history upon both the big and little, silver and static, and increasingly digitized screens of the world. It wasn't until she got to the section where said admirer decided to describe in lurid detail what he would like to do to all of her above mentioned perfect assets that Penelope trailed off, giving them both the sparest portion of her mercy.

Penelope folded the letter in thirds, going to put it back in the envelope, then noticed something else. “Oh, he included something in here.”

Chloe had a good idea what it would be. Feeling vengeful, she smiled and said innocently, “Oh, he did? Why don’t you tell me what it was.”

“Well, let’s see here, it’s — oh my _God._ ”

“Dick pic?” she chirped happily. “Dick pic, isn’t it?”

Penelope huffed. She glared at her daughter as she stuffed both the letter and photograph back into the envelope, tossing it into the discard pile. The coffee maker beeped, signaling it was done, so she turned to pour a cup, hiding her smirk as her mother fussed in the background. When she turned back around, her face was arranged with careful and evident neutrality. The stink eye her mother gave her only contributed to her satisfaction.

With two remaining on her lap, and Penelope looked at them now with some measure of wariness. She decided to bypass the small plastic product package, a decision Chloe thought wise, in favor of the last one, which was a highly ornate envelope, a gilded brocade sealed with _wax_ of all things. Recognizing it as the one that had caught her eye earlier, Chloe frowned, glancing over at it, uncertain what to make of it.

“Well, isn’t this quite the fancy thing,” she said, holding it up to catch the light.

“Open it,” she told her mother. “I’ve no idea what it is.”

Penelope did as asked, smiling a little out of the corner of her mouth, her interest piqued if Chloe’s was, before pulling out a letter written on a luxurious piece of stationary, the kind with the color and texture of fine parchment.

Pouring cream into her coffee, she waited impatiently for her mother to read it. “Well,” she prompted after a moment, sipping her coffee, “what is it?”

“It’s an offer from somebody named —” Penelope paused, doing a double-take at the name. “Lucifer…Morningstar?”

“What?”

Coming around the counter, she snatched the letter out of her hands. Holding it up, she scanned through it, her mouth twisting in disbelief as she read. The letter was handwritten in clean, sweeping script that bordered on calligraphic, which made a perfectly absurd counterpoint to the actual content of the letter: an invitation to star in his next feature film, replete with an outrageous number with so many zeroes it had to be clerical error. Signed at the bottom, in cursive so fancy it looped like a sailor’s knot around itself, was in fact, the name of the devil himself.

Her jaw worked for a moment, a dozen emotions working through her mind like a bullet train with no intended stopping point. It had to be a prank, she thought. Had to be. Finally, she just managed to choke out, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Penelope’s mind was hard at work undermining any semblance of credulity she had left, though. Her brow furrowed as she looked over the letter, then her eyes widened in excitement as she exclaimed, “Oh, I know who he is, actually. He’s the handsome gentleman who runs that famous club downtown — Light or something.” She blinked, realizing something, and said, “And a pornography studio, apparently.”

Chloe pressed her lips into a thin line, and she tossed the letter down in annoyance. “I doubt there’s much gentlemanly about him if he’s making offers to retired porn stars, Mom. He’s probably just some trust fund pervert with a fetish for putting notches in his bedpost.”

“Well, it is quite an offer,” Penelope said, picking it up and glancing through it again. “You could buy a car for that. A nice one.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said tightly. “I’m retired.”

“Well, offer or not, he seems _awfully_ charming. This is quite the glowing review of your character he included.”

“Charming or not, it’s not happening”

She shook her head in disbelief. In the months and years after she had left the industry, offers had continued to come in with some routine frequency, all of which she had turned down one after another. It wasn’t until word of Trixie’s birth had become some matter of public knowledge that they had trickled to an eventual nothing. At this point, nearly a decade removed from her last film, the people who cared to see her knew better than to ask, which meant Lucifer Morningstar was either out of the know or cared little for industry decorum.

“Judging by that number, he’s a man on a mission,” Penelope teased.

“Yeah, well, he’s chasing the wind there.” Her shoulders were tight and tense, and she rolled them, shrugging it off. “It doesn’t matter if the money is good or not. Dan gives me enough shit about Trixie as it is that I’m not going to risk giving him more ammo for another custody case.”

That was enough to sober Penelope, whose good humor faded with her smile, likely recalling the taste of some bitter memory or another. She sighed a little, refolding the letter and putting it back inside. “I suppose it was at least a nice gesture. A little boost to the ego, as it were.” When her daughter didn’t respond, Penelope just smiled slyly. “I can at least tell you he is a handsome pervert, if word in celebrity circles is anything to go by.”

Chloe groaned. “Mother,” she said, her tone warning. After trying to pair her up with half of the male staff at the outpatient clinic for the last six years, the last thing she needed was her mother playing matchmaker with a pornographic religious cosplayer.

Penelope just chuckled but to her relief cast the envelope into the discard pile. She sighed, tapping her fingers on the table, watching her daughter with a tilted smile. “Are you going to be late today in the studio?”

“Not too late,” she answered, “but I may need you to watch Trixie for an hour or so before I get home. John had a meeting with the bigwigs today, so we had to push to late morning.” Realizing something, she looks at her mother thoughtfully. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Penelope said blandly, brushing unseen lint from the sleeves of her blouse. To Chloe, it was a dead giveaway she was hiding something. “I’ve an appointment later today is all that may run a little late.”

Chloe’s eyes narrowed. “If this is an audition,” she started, but her mother held up a hand, forestalling her.

“Nothing of the sort.” Penelope straightened in her chair, turning her wrists out elegantly and assuming a posture that was both haughty and defensive all at once. “Besides, you made your feelings about Trixie’s stage career abundantly clear to me last time.”

“You entered her into a Little Miss Hollywood contest when she was six without even asking either Dan or myself permission first. I got to hear about it from him for _months_ afterward, by the way.”

“Regardless,” Penelope said, tossing her hair in a way that said she was done arguing, “it has nothing to do with Trixie beyond the timing.”

“Then what is it?”

“Just a little get together with friends is all. I may not be home until closer to four is all.”

Her mother was hedging in a way of which Chloe was immediately suspicious, but she let it go for the moment, resigning herself to the fact that she would later encounter whatever it was with the sudden impact of a stray bullet. She sighed. “Fine, I’ll call Mrs. Friedman and ask if Trixie can stay with her until you get home.”

Penelope was immediately jubilant. “Oh, Cathy will be very pleased to see her, I’m sure! She’s quite fond of our little monkey. It’s been awhile since she and I caught up on the local gossip, anyhow.”

Her opinion probably wouldn’t be as positive if she had heard Trixie’s dispassionate review of Mrs. Friedman’s cupcakes last time she was over, Chloe thought. If there was ever a connoisseur of chocolate cake, it was Trixie Espinoza, and she wielded her opinion with the clumsy and merciless blunt force of a neolithic caveman’s club. Then again, Chloe had a hard time disagreeing with her that sugar was a fairly important part of a cake recipe.

“As long as we’re not imposing too much,” she said finally. “If I have to leave early, I will.”

“Everything will be fine, dear, I’m sure.”

Chloe glanced at her watch, frowning when she saw it was nine. “I have to get going,” she said. “Remember to call me if something comes up, all right?”

“Of course, dear.”

Grabbing up the pile of discards, including Mr. Morningstar’s outrageously impractical offer, she tossed them in the garbage on the way out, pushing them down the side where Trixie wouldn’t see them, then made her way out the door without giving any of it or him another thought.

* * *

Later, two hours into a production shoot, while adjusting one of the ring lights to better emphasize the oiled up physique of a cardboard cutout of a human being named Johnny Jets while he bent a petite blonde named Nikki over a cheap Ikea desk so she could earn her _big_ holiday bonus, she decided to broach the issue with the production assistant. Like her, Mark had started on the other side of the camera and slowly worked his way behind it. He had been in the business thirty years now, his connections well spread across the industry, like a slutty tree with roots buried deep in the porn underground. The two of them were not friends, exactly, but they shared the frayed tether of a bond borne of having wrestled the beast and survived, as well as a shared dislike of their director, who was currently berating the sound tech for getting the boom mic too close to the shot.

“So I have a question for you,” she said, keeping her voice low and discreet as she adjusted the screws in the base to raise the stand another few inches. Mark was holding it steady for her, his features haloed brightly in the ambient LEDs, looking the part of some digital angel tossed from Heaven and made to serve his sentence of damnation scrubbing lube from production equipment. It felt fitting.

“Hit me, babe.”

“You heard anything about the new guy who’s been making waves lately — Lucifer Morningstar?”

“The weirdo who claims to be the devil?” he asked, helping her shift the ring stand over, inch by inch, until the director gave them a thumbs up from the other side of the set.

“Can’t imagine there’s another one,” she grunted, gently dropping the light into place. Adjustments made, she leaned back and critically assessed her work until she deemed it satisfactory, then settled a few feet back, leaning against a table. It wasn’t quite to the standard she would prefer, but it was as good as it was going to get with the director insisting on a two point setup instead of the three for which she kept arguing.

Mark followed her over, crossing his arms as he sent a wry look her way. “I’ve heard a few things. What do you want to know?”

She scuffed a shoe against the floor. “Mostly what his deal is. I googled him on the way here, but you can imagine how successful _that_ search went.”

He laughed softly, “Yeah, I can imagine. Kind of surprised you haven’t heard about him, though.”

“Some of us spend their evenings watching _My Little Pony_ , Mark.”

“Point taken.” He hummed a little, rubbing his jaw. “There’s really not much to say other than the fact that 6669 Productions came out the gate swinging. Dude is _prolific_. I don’t know any other studio that’s putting out content at that rate. No idea how he’s doing it, either, since he stars in nearly all of them. They have to be shooting at least two or three sets a day to keep up that kind of output.”

Chloe scoffed. “That’s impossible. Nobody can do that.”

Mark made a helpless gesture to the effect of _I don’t make the rules, just film ones we’re breaking,_ then shrugged. “Might be, but they’re doing it. I took a look for myself when his name started popping up in forums before they started getting industry recognition. Pretty decent production work, too. Somebody’s dumping a lot of money into those sets, that’s for sure. Not sure if that’ll last given how revenue’s down, but we’ll see. He’s looking to be a big player from the look of it.”

“Good luck,” she said, snorting. “Industry is nothing like it was even a decade ago.”

“It’s not,” he agreed, “though from what I looked into, he’s not hurting for money, regardless. He apparently owns a bunch of property in the area, including that big club downtown, Lux.”

“My mother mentioned something about that. I didn’t realize it was so famous, though.” She also didn’t know what to think that her mother was more more up to date on mainstream gossip than she was, but then, Penelope fancied the trappings of celebrity better than she; the attention wore like an old coat on her, comfortable and flattering, while Chloe had always been keenly aware of the weight of it on her shoulders.

“Yeah, he opened it a few years back and was enough of a character to get some notoriety out of it. Place is kind of a hotspot these days for the rich and pretty. My guess is he decided to capitalize on the name recognition after a while. Kind of ridiculous, but you know. Effective.” He gave her a sharp grin, toothy and hard. “You know how it is in this town.”

“I know how it is,” she echoed. Shifting a little in discomfort, she cracked her neck, thinking of how to word her next question, but Mark beat her to the punch.

“So what’s got you interested in him all of a sudden?”

“I got a letter in the mail. An offer. A _film_ offer.” The ludicrousness of it hit her suddenly, like a pulled punch, and she stifled a laugh. “Can you imagine? Me? I haven’t been in front of a camera for _ages._ ”

When she looked up, she expected Mark to look equally amused, but the expression on his face was thoughtful. She pursed her mouth. “What?”

“How much did he offer?”

She stared at him blankly.

“So it was a _good_ offer.”

“Mark, I’ve been retired for nearly a decade. It’s not happening. I’m _thirty-seven._ ”

“Who cares? It’s not like you let yourself go,” he said, looking her over in frank appraisal. “Mature women have their own cachet these days, and besides, the guy pays well. Rumor has it he got Misty Canyons back in front of the camera for the price of a small car.”

“Misty Canyons is a tight, bouncy twenty-six year old with one of the few decent boob jobs in the industry,” she said wryly, quirking her lips. “She also likely doesn’t attend Girl Scout meetings.”

“Remind me to give you the money for those thin mints.”

Chloe nodded absently. They stood in silence for a moment, watching Nikki arch her body into a truly impressive wheel pose while she made a very convincing oral argument about her worth as an employee. Apparently, she hadn’t been lying about being a yoga teacher in her background.

A few minutes in, he leaned over and said in closer confidence, “It just seems like a shame to pass it up, though. There’s a lot of money in nostalgia these days, and you’ve got mainstream name recognition in a way Misty never had. You could easily leverage that for more.”

“It’s just not an option. I couldn’t do that to Trixie. Not to mention my ex would hit the fucking roof.”

In the background, Nikki and Jet serenaded them with a duet of intermingling and increasingly artificial sounds of pleasure, so he leaned in closer where she could hear him. “It’s your choice, but the guy’s legit as far as I know. Fair warning if you turn him down, though — word has it he’s kind of relentless. Kinda get the sense he’s not the kind of guy used to hearing ‘no,’ if you get my drift.”

She caught his meaning all right, and she smiled sourly. “Well, I guess I’ll have the pleasure of being the first.”

Mark eyed her speculatively, then opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was, it was cut off by the director yelling “Cut!” behind them. They both turned to see their two spent performers tangled up on the floor like a sweaty, erotic pretzel. A few crewmen rushed in with towels to help them up, while hair and makeup swooped in on them for touch ups. In little time, the director converged on them, shaking a series of production notes their way. Mark took the opportunity to go help them (read: flee), leaving her to deal with John alone. The _bastard_.

“Enough chit chat between you two. I need my key light front and center. We’ve got two hours left on this shoot before I need to get it to post, and we’ve still got anal to shoot!”

“Why not keep the key light where it is and add a rim light?” she asked. “We can just move the fill light around then and adjust as needed.”

“Decker, if I want your opinion on how to run my set, I’ll ask you. Until then, just do what I say.”

She withheld a sigh. “Of course, John. Whatever you say.”

Satisfied with her answer, he wandered off to harass the cameraman. Chloe sighed, then dragged herself up to get the next lighting sequence set up. Mark trailed behind her, munching a donut he had pilfered from the lunch table. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“I have no idea how you can eat while you’re on set.”

He gave her a shrug, then leaned in close as the production crew headed their way and murmured confidentially, “It’s up to you what to do with that offer, but keep your head on straight — you know this isn’t the industry to make enemies in. Just keep an open mind about it, eh? Can’t hurt to consider it.”

* * *

Mark’s words weighed on her mind through the rest of the day and into the evening after the L.A. maelstrom had spat her out into the side streets toward home. It wasn’t until she had headed to pick up her daughter that she managed to put it out of her head. Trixie had regaled her with a grave retelling of the day’s fourth grade drama after her classmate had thrown up all over the school cafeteria, replete with such exquisite detail that she was more than content to skip out on eating the pizza her mother had ordered and brought home. Said mother was still playing her part in the worst spy comedy ever, edging around revealing any more details than necessary about her outing, which convinced her she would only hate it that much more when it came out.

By late evening, Trixie and Penelope ensconced themselves in a fortress made of pillows and blankets, nestled together in the heart of the living room as they watched one of her mother’s more PG-friendly films. The movie was cheesy and full of big hair, her mother’s classic signature, replete with the kind of cheap, futuristic plasticine feel that characterized 80s, low-budget science fiction. It made for good pizza watching and was suitably mind-numbing. Chloe sipped chamomile tea, her appetite remaining spare, as she listened to the two chatter away about the halcyon days of the vampire queen.

By nine, Trixie was curled up asleep, skinny arms flung out across the pillows like a bird mid-flight. Penelope gathered her up with obvious but insistent effort, hauling her off to bed to leave Chloe to her own devices. Alone with her thoughts, Mark’s words came back to haunt her, and she sighed, knowing she could no longer put it off. Digging through the trash, she pulled Morningstar’s envelope, which was thankfully mostly intact save for a stray grease stain courtesy of the half-finished third slice Trixie had insisted she wanted then refused to finish a third of the way in. Sighing, she brought it over to the table where she had been going through her work emails.

Turning the envelope upside down, she dumped the contents out on the table. Along with the letter, a small business card tumbled out. She picked it up, examining the charcoal black exterior, surprisingly tasteful and spare in design. The name “6669 Productions” was emblazoned across the front in fine set gold print (she would bet dollars for donuts it was real gold, too), stylized with a small, forked tail curving out from the nine. She flipped it over to find his contact information tucked in the bottom corner. Atop was simply a tagline that read, "Where all desires are satisfied." She didn’t bother restraining the eye roll it inspired.

Unfolding the letter, she read through it again, all of its patently ridiculous and glamorous nonsense. The offer wasn't even offensive, per se; there was a certain level of charm between the old-fashioned script and perfectly gentlemanly five digit number for a one glorious return to the small screen. Chloe ran a finger over the zeroes in the number, letting her eyes linger on it, and stifled a laugh. Trust fund kid, she thought, or some European socialite. With a name like that, he wouldn't have slipped under the radar in L.A., that’s for certain.

Chewing on her lip, she read it over once more, considering the tone, fiddling with the wording. She didn't know why it mattered, beyond the fact that the offer _was_ flattering, even absent Mark’s warning about burning bridges in their industry. Not one of her films had ever offered her that much, even in her brief Hollywood stint. That feeling was only exacerbated when she had googled him and found his handsomely smirking face staring back at her, often tucked beside some winsome beauty, still living the prime of their youth. Why he would seek her out, all these years later, she could not say, but it admittedly tickled something in her deep down, an ossified residue of something she had long buried.

Shaking her head, she flattened the letter out, considering it. Picking up the business card, she pulled up her email, typing in the address and then filling out the form. She did her best to be polite and sound gracious, even as she stated firmly that she would be rejecting his offer and reiterating her dedication to retirement, even if the absolute absurdity of the situation wore at her keenly. She typed and then retyped it twice, biting her lip as she checked it once more for errors, before finally clicking send.

Pushing out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, she sat back and watched as her email pinged with the alert it was sent. It felt like an affirmation, waving goodbye yet again to the spectre of Angel Love and all the troubling, colorful history to which she belonged. Chloe kept the past at arm’s length for a reason, several of them, actually, but the most important one lie sleeping not more than a few rooms away, cocooned in a bubble of youthful ignorance that Chloe dreaded would one day burst. With a sigh, she got up, making her way down the hallway to bed, feeling the weight of the day keenly.

To her surprise, her mother waiting for her in the hallway, propped against the door of her own room, the expression on her face vague and inscrutable, two qualities Penelope did not possess in great quantities. She knew it meant her mother had something to say, so Chloe paused, knowing already she wasn’t going to be thrilled with whatever it is.

“What?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

Penelope shifted to let her pass and followed her to the other bedrooms. She was quiet as they made the short trek up to Chloe’s bedroom door, and then as they paused, she reached out and rubbed her arm warmly. Chloe tried to smile for her mother’s sake, feeling as worn out as an old shirt.

“Are you okay, sweetie? You seemed stressed today.”

“It’s fine. I’ve just been running around all day, and tomorrow’s a long day in the studio.”

“Is that director still giving you trouble?”

“John’s dick, so of course he is, but I can handle him.” She shrugged a little. “It’s steady work that pays decently. I’m not going to complain about it.”

“Of course, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” Penelope said soothingly, reaching up to brush hair that had fallen from her ponytail out of her face. “It’s just…the last few years have been hard on everyone, and you’ve been so closed off to new things — ”

“Mom, turning down the opportunity to fuck some method actor on camera is hardly a sign I’ve given up.”

“I was talking about Joseph,” her mother said gently, and she flushed a little at the chiding in her tone. “He told me he called, but you never got back to him about a date.”

“Joseph?”

Penelope gave her a look, narrowing her eyes in a way that managed to chide with silence. Chloe bit her lip as Penelope said, “Joseph is the nurse in the outpatient clinic I talked to you about. The one you always got on with _so_ well when I had appointments, yes?”

“Joseph is a nice guy,” she responded, pursing her lips when she found herself struggling to articulate it. “I’ve just been busy — with work and everything, and of course, Trixie.” Looking away, she scuffed a bare foot against the well worn carpet.

“You haven’t dated anybody since Dan,” Penelope pointed out, “and while I know that didn’t end well, that doesn’t mean you can’t try again — ”

“She’s been through enough change in the last few years that I just don’t feel she’s ready to introduce something else like a boyfriend into it.” Chloe took in a sharp breath, rubbing at her face. “ _I’m_ not ready, either, to be honest. It’s just too much on my plate right now.”

Penelope sighed, the long-suffering echo of maternal disappointment, something Chloe was well familiar with, but thankfully, she didn’t look fit to continue the argument. Giving her daughter a final pat on the arm, she said simply, “Just remember it doesn’t have to be all work and sacrifice on your part. Your father was the same way, and just like him, you need to remember you deserve to be happy, too.”

Turning abruptly, Penelope entered her room, shutting the door behind her, before Chloe could come up with an answer or even summon the proper umbrage that her mother had pulled the _Dad_ card of all things. Instead, she lingered in the hallway for a moment, feeling uneasy and shorthanded, before finally forcing herself to move toward her own bedroom and to bed.

In her room, she undressed slowly, her fatigue hammering into her as she thought of the week ahead, all that needed done. In the dim light, she felt as inconsequential as a ghost, moving light as a shadow through her room, working her way through all the small rituals of sleep. Chloe paused in front of her vanity, taking a good look at herself: slim and fair and thirty-seven, every year of it, she thought, judging from the faint stretch marks on her belly and breasts, the lines creeping around her eyes. She hadn’t let herself go, but time had caught up certain enough. It always did.

Shaking her head, she pulled on her pajamas and shut off the light, curling up under the comforter, tight and small. As she lay there, she made her mind simple and blank, pushing out the stress of the day and every thought of Lucifer Morningstar and the myriad other men in her life that had disappointed her past the glossy exterior they presented.

If only it had been that easy.


	2. The Second Offering (And the Third, Fourth...)

Tuesday’s shoot went badly from the start. Production had two call offs even before Chloe arrived at the studio, one of the actresses had a car accident coming in and delayed the shoot by an hour, costume had pulled the wrong size lingerie for the other one, and right as all of that was sorted out, the fill light went on the fritz. By the time noon came around, after ten minutes of the director hurling invective at her and the rest of the production crew, she was ready to throw something.

Mark found her just as she was replacing the casing on the ring light, sliding it back into place and screwing in the latch. She looked up with a glare that bespoke threats of violence when he cleared his throat for her attention. He smiled at her around the rim of a coffee cup in a manner that was entirely too smug and self-satisfied for her liking, a magician offering wonder in a clenched fist whose secrets he had no intention of revealing.

“ _What?_ ”

He nodded to her setup. “Need help with that, angel baby?”

“Don’t call me that,” she said sharply, then pushed out a breath. “What I need is for John to stop insisting we use goddamn _ring_ lights and hire a new electrician so I’m not doing the job of multiple people.” After popping everything back into place, she said, “If you could help me move it, I’d appreciate it.”

Nodding, he set his cup down and helped her up. Together, they righted the stand, and he held it in place as she reattached the ring to the main tripod. He was even generous enough to carry it back over to its proper placement, which is how she knew he was going to ruin her day between that and the smile that would not quit on his face.

“What are you so happy about? Don’t say the weather. John’s already insulted your mother twice today.”

He shrugged lightly, in a way that did not fool her at all, and she squinted at him. She watched him retrieve his coffee cup, crossing her arms as he continued to casually ignore her question along with the storm brewing on her face. He took a long sip, throat bobbing, as his eyes glittered with the humor of a joke at her expense.

“ _Mark._ ”

“Did you ever give that guy a call back on the offer?”

“Who, Morningstar? Yeah, fired off an email the other night turning it down.” At his raised eyebrow, she shrugged a little self-consciously. “I was polite about it, but I meant it when I said I was done.”

“Did he get that memo?”

“What do you mean?”

Looking at something behind her, he nodded in the direction of the door. Chloe whipped around, just in time to see the studio’s secretary, Melody, stagger in, her arms loaded with a truly massive flower arrangement, an explosively colorful display of vibrant reds, purples, and greens. One of the cameramen took the gentleman’s tack and broke off to help her when she nearly stumbled over the the long cords lining the floor like idle garden snakes, and the two of the maneuvered it to the prop table where its weight settled with a long _donk._

With a huff, the secretary turned, looking flustered as she smoothed down her rumpled blouse, then paused when she realized the room’s eyes were on her. Clearing her throat, she opened her mouth to speak, and Chloe had a sudden, striking premonition, a dread similar to the way a pot of water bubbles below the surface before it boils, as she thought of Mark’s shit-eating grin.

She thought, _Oh no_ and _please don’t_ and _what the fuck._

“Is Chloe Decker here?”

Every eye plastered to the display pivoted her way; she wanted the ground to swallow her, but she knew her path to Hell would never be so easy. Sighing, she made her way over to this new curve ball life was tossing her way bare-handed. Melody gave her a look, short and even, her red lips pursed in displeasure. She handed Chloe a card, small and square and black with gold filigree around the edges, and she knew before opening it whose elegant handwriting would greet her on the inside. Flipping it open, she scanned it, finding Lucifer Morningstar’s signature flourish adorning the bottom of the card. Inscribed inside were a few simple sentences.

> _I once entered a secret garden hoping to seduce the first woman. For the modern woman, I suppose the garden must be brought to her. My adjusted offer is below for your consideration._

Beneath it was a handwritten number that made her suck in a breath in disbelief and then laughed awkwardly, letting out a snort that made her embarrassment tie a hard knot in her chest; she could feel her face flushing the longer she stood there awkwardly. Aware everybody’s eyes were on her, she snapped the card shut abruptly, just in time to see John stalk over looking furious.

“What the hell is all this?” he demanded. “I’ve got a shoot two and a half hours behind schedule. I don’t have time for this low budget Hallmark shit right now.”

Her patience frayed to breaking, Chloe snapped back, “Do I look like the kind of idiot who has somebody send flowers to a _fucking_ porn shoot, John? Give me a break.” She heard Mark stifle a laugh behind her and nearly rounded on him too, but before she could, the director turned his ire on Melody.

“What have I told you about interrupting us during shooting hours? Unless it’s an emergency, the set should be closed until the filming is done.”

The poor, beleaguered woman made a helpless gesture in the direction of the door. “I know that, but I don’t know what to do with the rest of them.”

Chloe froze, looking up from where she was weeding through the flowers to see if any other correspondence was hidden in there. She turned back to Melody, her stomach sinking. “What do you mean _them_?”

Before Melody could answer, she pushed past the assembled crew and headed for the door, coming to an abrupt stop as she burst into the hallway. Chloe sought in vain for a way to adequately convey her feelings but came up short. She didn’t even know Mark was hot on her heels until she heard him whistle lowly behind her.

“Well, look at that,” he said, in a voice that barely broke the surface of his glee.

Around Melody’s desk sat several more lavish bouquets, lushly woven with all manner of flora, the blooms bursting with bright, bold color and scent, the hallway permeated with the fresh aroma of roses. They spilled out from atop the desk and into the main hallway, creating an obstacle course. Chloe stood gaping for a moment before snapping her mouth shut and glaring at Mark.

“Did you know about this?” she demanded.

“About the flowers? No. I just happened to see the truck arrive. On the other hand, I _did_ warn you Morningstar wasn’t a guy who takes rejection lightly.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“It isn’t? I think it’s hilarious.”

Before she could respond, John came storming out of the studio behind them, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw the terraforming operation that had gone done in the main hallway of his business. He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Will somebody please explain to me exactly what the hell I am looking at right now.”

“Looks like the studio has been taken over by an invasive species,” Mark observed blandly.

“Shut the fuck up, Sanchez,” the director snapped, and Mark did exactly as told but wore a smile hard and mean that Chloe knew meant retreat but not surrender. It was also the only moment of respite she received before John turned the full force of his anger on her.

“Decker, I don’t care what it takes or how you do it, but I want this shit out of my studio in half an hour. We’re already behind schedule, and now I’ve got a girl whose face is blowing like a balloon because, as it turns out, she’s allergic to goddamn _chrysanthemum_ of all things, which means we’re cutting for lunch until those allergy med kicks in.” He shoved a pile of papers into Mark’s arms, who nearly dropped them. “I want us set up for the blow job scene by one. Expect us to be here well into the evening to get this done.”

With that, he turned on his heel and stormed back into the studio. Chloe gestured helplessly after him before turning back to the small, captive jungle overtaking the main hallway. Covering her face with her hands, she slowly let out a breath, forcing herself to keep calm. Something like hysteria was building inside her, blooming like an atomic cloud of frustration inside her. The laugh that burst out of her was shrill and slightly manic, and when she looked at Mark, his high humor had fallen to something borderline concerned.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with all of this?” she asked, pointing to the mess. “I can’t possibly fit all of that in my car.”

He grinned at her, his humor returning in the absence of their bellicose director. “Maybe you can gift one to everyone in the cast as a consolation gift.”

“ _Not_ helping.”

“Well then, the dumpster in the back alley may be our best option.” Walking over to one of the arrangements, he leaned in, taking a deep breath of perfumed air, which, to be fair, _was_ a vast improvement over the usual underlying stench of a porn studio. “Kind of a waste though,” he said after a moment. “These would’ve cost a pretty penny.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “I’m not dealing with John’s bullshit for the rest of the day over this because some lunatic with access to daddy’s bank account thinks he’s funny.”

She made her way over to one of the less excessive floral pieces and crouched to grab it, lifting it with a grunt as she felt the whole weight of the display once she stood. It had the same dimensions and heft as the force of her anger, and she would gladly aim either at Lucifer Morningstar’s head should she ever have the misfortune of encountering him in person.

“You’re going to be dealing with his bullshit for the rest of the day regardless,” he corrected, but then he bent and picked up one of the larger arrangements in solidarity.

Carefully, he navigated around the others and headed to the main door with Chloe trailing behind him. As they exited the studio, the high noon sun pummeled them with force, and Chloe flinched a little at the change in brightness, one more strike against the day. Squinting, she followed Mark around the corner to the alleyway with its own feast of awful smells to behold as they neared the dumpster.

“Look at the bright side, angel baby,” he said dumped his load over the edge, where it landed it with a heavy _thunk_ , then turned to meet the scowl she was wearing. He knew she hated that nickname. That he got away with it was a reflection of her respect and well-disciplined determination not to kill her coworkers on any given day.

“And what would that be?”

“Thanks to that lunatic, we’re actually getting a lunch break today,” he said cheerfully, then stuck his hands underneath hers and helped her tip $700 of decadent, fragrant lilies into the trash.

* * *

Shooting wound up delayed long enough that Chloe didn’t get home until well past five. Trixie and her mother were waiting for her on the front porch, the former’s little legs swinging back and forth with pendulous glee as she picked through the dregs of what was once presumably a brownie. When she spotted her mother, she waved happily in greeting, face smudged with icing. Chloe smiled, despite the day and despite herself, knowing whatever dinner she had planned was probably doomed.

“I take it we visited Mrs. Friedman,” she said astutely, reaching the top stair and nodding to her mother in acknowledgment.

“Since you called ahead to tell us you were working late, I decided to give my dear friend a visit,” Penelope answered. “We played a little bridge and did a little baking while we were there, didn’t we, Trixie?”

“Yep! And this time, the brownies came out really, _really_ good since we included the flour.”

“Why, yes, I would imagine that’s an important step,” she said wryly, glancing Penelope’s way, who just smiled faintly.

Mrs. Friedman’s memory was beginning to slip in recent years, a fact that worried Chloe mainly in a logistically selfish way: it meant finding a new babysitter for Trixie when her mother wasn’t capable. Chloe had personally only dealt with the woman mainly in passing, but Catherine was kind and friendly and had proved a boon to her mother’s life after the years of chemotherapy and recovery had isolated her from much of her typical industry friend circle. It had been hard enough selling off the beach house, a hard-earned luxury of which neither of them had been happy to part, but having to sell Chloe’s childhood home had been the harder blow, along with its collection of neighbors who enjoyed their proxy fame to the ‘80s B-screen queen. Mrs. Friedman’s fading person was a reminder every day Penelope’s world was getting smaller and more confined than she had preferred.

“I take it we’re not in the mood for dinner, then?” she asked after a moment.

“I made lasagna to bring over,” Penelope assured her. “We had some dinner before our dessert.”

“ _You_ made lasagna?”

“Chloe Jane Decker, I don’t believe I like the tone of your voice.”

“It was actually really good, mommy,” Trixie agreed, then verified her suspicions by adding, “Even if the noodles were a little mushy.”

Chloe pursed her lips, trying to hide a smile as Penelope turned her patented and well-honed look of maternal displeasure on her granddaughter, who had the natural defense of being very cute, so it didn’t last long, especially when she beamed up at her Nana with smile that stretched miles. Penelope just threw up her hands.

“Well, she’s fed is the important thing. The better question is what we’re going to do about you, since I’m going to assume _you_ aren’t looking forward to Penelope Decker’s homemade lasagna delight now.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Chloe said, mouth twitching. “I’m not really feeling hungry after the day I’ve had, anyway.”

“Bad day at the office, I take it?”

She rolled her eyes. “You have no idea. Let’s go inside, and I’ll fill you on on all of the illustrious details of my day.”

Despite her arguments otherwise, Penelope managed to coax her into at least suffering through a side salad, which she picked through with bird-like delicacy while narrating the day’s events in curt, blunt detail, carefully edited with a mind to their nearby audience. Penelope listened with her head cocked, an amused smile painted on her face, twitching every so often with good humor Chloe neither appreciated or indulged. She gave her mother a flat look when she asked if she had saved any of the floral arrangements.

“No, I told you we tossed them all. I wasn’t indulging that nonsense. It’s completely unprofessional. Really, why would _anyone_ tolerate that?”

“Your father used to send flowers to me quite often on set,” Penelope said with a sigh, sounding entirely too charmed for her tastes.

Dropping her fork into her salad with a clink, she said, “I think a husband sending his wife flowers is a little different than some overgrown man child pranking me for laughs, Mom.” She sighed, pushing her half-finished bowl aside with a scowl. “He’s probably the type who thinks he’s _very_ funny, except he’s enjoying the joke at _my_ expense.”

“Maybe,” Penelope said, sipping her tea. “He seems rather keen on you, though. Perhaps he has other reasons than just purely professional for his interest.”

“Probably cutting notches in a bedpost somewhere,” she said acidly, then stopped and sighed, putting her head in her hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to be so negative, but the last thing I need is John getting on me about something else. He already gives me enough shit as it is.”

“Directors have their egos,” Penelope commented, pursing her lips, and Chloe knew there was a story there, a few of them, but it wasn’t a book she felt needed opened and read having written her own copy in experience. Porn sets had their tribal politics, too, perhaps even more intensely than big screens because the stakes were so very low. She had crossed paths with enough of the worst of them to know they flocked to positions that allowed them their small fief in the world of film industry, and John was no exception, projecting all the misery and spite of his limited talent on the world around them. If not for the fact that it was steady work and Mark’s hand in getting her position in the first place, she would have heeded the red flags John threw down hourly like a matador courting the raging bull of her ire and been well on her way out already.

“It was just a very long day,” she said after a moment, feeling tired in a way that had nothing to do with rest. “I just don’t have time to be dealing with some immature prankster on top of everything else.”

Penelope shrugged. “I wouldn’t take it personally. L.A. has its share of, well, let’s call them eccentrics. I’ve encountered a fair share of oddballs on the convention circuit, and most of them have proved fairly harmless. It may be worth calling him up directly to see why he’s so interested.”

“Somehow, I feel like he’s the type to just see that as encouragement,” she said dryly. “I’ll just have to make it very clear 

Picking up her bowl, she scraped the rest of it into the garbage, glancing up when she heard Trixie’s footsteps. Her daughter stood patiently before her, hugging a copy of a book to her chest. After a moment, she recognized it for the one she had received for her birthday from one of Dan’s sisters.

“Are you done with your homework, monkey?” she asked, turning to dump her bowl in the sink.

Trixie nodded, then held up the book for her. “Is it okay if we start the book tonight? Aunt Maria said it would be _intellectually simulating_ and that I needed more of that in my life.”

She heard her mother scoff, and Chloe traded a look with her that said everything profane that couldn’t be uttered in earshot of a child. Dan’s family, Catholic and curt by nature, had made it plainly clear on a regular occasion exactly where they stood on having a granddaughter and niece introduced into the family via an unmarried former porn star. They took their shots carefully, but they made them. Usually, it was easy enough to brush off, but as Trixie grew older and more precocious, climbing a ladder ever closer to an age where ignorance would no longer be a viable option, they had taken on a certain cold candor that was more difficult to navigate.

It took everything in her not to roll her eyes, but somehow she managed it. Smiling tightly, she took the book from her daughter and said, “You mean _stimulating_ , and I’m sure Aunt Maria said that because she loves you very much and not at all as a strike against my parenting.” Glancing at the title, she didn’t bother controlling her exasperation this time when she saw it was a copy of _Harry Potter_. Quality literature, indeed, she thought snidely, then turned back to her daughter, letting her expression sink into something fonder and more genuine. “Let’s get you a bath, and then we’ll read for a little bit before bed, okay?”

Trixie nodded and turned on her heel to skip off to the bathroom, and Chloe followed close on her heels, only pausing to pat the book on the table firmly and insist Penelope keep a close eye on their burgeoning collection of academic literature. Her mother’s laughter carried into the hallway after them, taking some of the sting out of the day’s disappointment. 

* * *

5/20/17 10:17PM  
To: ringsatansdoorbell@6669productions.com  
From: c.j.decker@studioraw.com  
Topic: Regarding Recent Communication Over the Offer Presented by Studio 6669 Productions

Dear Mr. Morningstar,

I received your flowers today at my office along with the updated offer. I presume this was in followup to the offer letter you sent me earlier in the week to which, if you recall, I responded to on Monday evening with a rejection. While the monetary amount you suggested for my cooperation was substantial and very generous, I must again firmly reiterate my disinterest in returning to industry as an actress. My time in front of the camera was completed several years ago, and I will not be swayed to return by any amount offered. It is not a matter of money for me. 

Since you are a man who claims to be in the business of desires, allow me to state mine for the record: I do not wish to be contacted with any further offers for onscreen stardom. I do not want my work interrupted by unsolicited floral arrangements delivered in the middle of day while I am in the studio. Your persistent interest, while flattering, will not be persistently welcome if it is interfering with my life and work.

I thank you for your consideration and further respect of my wishes.

Regards,

Chloe Decker, formerly Angel Love

* * *

Thursday was an off day for shooting, which meant Chloe got to fill the hours of her day with freelance like nearly every other working adult in Los Angeles trying to make ends meet. The photoshoot she was doing lighting for didn’t start until noon, so Chloe took the opportunity to drive her daughter to school in the morning. Feeling indulgent, she stopped by Starbucks on the way there and was rewarded with Trixie’s uncharacteristic silence and satisfaction as she sucked down a child sized caramel mocha frappe (sans actual coffee) at abnormal speeds, even if felt a little like cheating at the game of parenting. It wasn’t until they were pulling up to the front of the school that Trixie bothered to turn her attention to anything but her whip cream empire.

“Will you pick me up later, too?”

“Sure, baby. I’m only working for a few hours today, and then I have to go grocery shopping, but I should be done by then.”

Trixie twisted sideways to look at her. “You’re not taking Nana to the doctor?”

Chloe frowned. “Why would Nana have a doctor’s appointment? She just had a checkup two months ago.”

A guilty look streaked across Trixie’s features, like she had opened a Pandora’s box she hadn’t known she held. Lowering her head, she took a very long sip of mocha frappe, refusing to answer.

“Trixie,” Chloe said carefully, “when did Nana tell you she had a doctor’s appointment?”

Her daughter squirmed a little in her seat. “She didn’t, but when we visited Mrs. Friedman, she was talking about having to see Dr. Wu again.”

Chloe felt something in her belly lurch, the uneven swing of a disrupted pendulum. As usual, Penelope’s secrets came lurching out of the shadows like a reanimated corpse hell bent on making her life more difficult. It could be nothing, she knew, and that may be precisely why her mother had been hiding things, some ossified sense of maternal protectiveness that outstripped her need to be the dramatic centre of the revolving universe, but discretion wasn’t like her. Biting her lip, Chloe worried it a little, knowing she would have to confront her mother about it later.

“It’s probably just another checkup. Remember, Dr. Wu said Nana was doing just fine last time we saw him.” Reaching over, she fixed the band on one of her daughter’s pigtails, which had slowly worked its way out of order. “I’ll talk to her later to clear things up, all right?”

Trixie’s brow furrowed as she took a long slurp that rattled around the dredges at the bottom of her cup. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“You won’t,” she promised. “Nana isn’t the type to hold grudges.” At least, not against her beloved granddaughter.

“Well, if she gets mad, maybe we can play dress up together. That always cheers her up!”

Chloe huffed out a fragment of an aborted laugh. “I think the days of her taking you to auditions are over for now.”

Privately, she prayed that was true; Dan had voiced enough reservations about Trixie being in public school as it was that Chloe didn’t want the fraught spectre of Trixie having any sort of elevated public profile to add to it. It had been years since Penelope had attempted stepping back into the industry, but she had made plenty of noise about her granddaughter having a shot at child stardom, which Chloe had shot down so vehemently that it had led to one of the worst rows the two of them had as adults. The bitterness Chloe kept bottled up inside, where it had aged to potency and sharpness over the years, was not something she released easily. What her mother had seen of it had left an impression, she imagined, a kind of scorched earth they had never managed to broach since. She had drawn the line, hard and firm in the sand, and refused to cross it.

When she managed to shake off the thought, she found daughter looking up at her speculatively. She gave her a half smile, which Trixie returned around a mouthful of whip cream, but it was tinged with the edge of something artificial, precocious in a way that worried Chloe; her daughter was sharp and canny in a manner that spoke to a sensitivity and intuition that made subterfuge and cultivated naivete almost impossible for her. The double-edged sword of having a grandfather and a father in police work, she thought wistfully.

“All right,” she said after a moment, “let’s get you to class.”

What remained of her drink was a dismal blend of whip cream and ice, and Chloe took it from her despite protests, setting it in the cup holder to discard later, feeling her questionable parenting decisions did not need to be advertised to the rest of the school body. Grabbing her backpack from the backseat, she handed it to her, then leaned over to kiss her forehead. Trixie beamed up at her, then opened the door to hop out.

“Be good,” she called after her as the door slammed shut. Heaving a sigh, she lingered long enough only to watch Trixie run up the stairs to the main doors, before putting the car into gear and driving off.

* * *

In a rare alignment of the planets, Chloe arrived to work early, giving her plenty of time to get the lighting setup done even before the actresses arrived. By the time the two women stripped down and started to make an impressive human slip knot on the black leather couch, she had little more to do beyond scroll through the messages on the phone — work emails, mostly, though the occasional oddball fanmail slipped through her spam filters, filled with all the prurient appeal one would expect.

She considered it a minor blessing social media had still been in its incipience when her career was at its peak; the online world had opened up immense opportunity to the amateur element of the industry, but it demanded accessibility and promoted a superficial familiarity that discomforted her. People had a way of recognizing her at the least appropriate times as it was, as much as she strove to achieve an unmatched level of brunette and boring. Trixie’s own social media usage was strictly monitored and carefully scrutinized to keep her mother’s presence off it. Dan had been adverse enough to the idea of getting her a smartphone in the first place and had only reluctantly agreed after it started becoming a logistics issue scheduling her back and forth between homes. The last thing she needed was to regret winning that fight.

The shoot went by smoothly, running over only thirty minutes past schedule. Chloe could hardly complain after some of the overtime she pulled, and besides, this place paid cash at time of service rendered, which she _definitely_ couldn’t complain about. She managed to get out by one, despite being stopped by the slightly starstruck photographer’s assistant and asked for her autograph as she was packing up to leave. Even traffic was amenable on the way out, and after she was back on the road, she rolled her window down, enjoying the breezy touch of Santa Ana on a spring day.

With the roads light and her schedule open for a few more hours, she flipped on her rideshare app, deciding it couldn’t hurt to get some time in. If there was anything California excelled at, it was being expensive: one could toss money endlessly into the black hole of its real estate market and still find it hungry for more. Her industry years had left her better off than most, but plenty of her major earnings had been swept up in the tidal wave of medical bills that had followed her mother’s most intensive cancer regimens. What chunk had remained after the American medical system had satisfied its gluttony had made a nice downpayment on the house and a small savings buffer that, with good fortune, she hoped to pass on to Trixie when she was of age to enter into the inevitable abyss of proper, debt-ridden adulthood. That was still a long shot, though, especially with the noise Dan kept making about putting her in private schooling. Until then, it was back to the grind, sans the fun of the bump.

Two hours in, her phone rang as she was dropping off her third customer, and she glanced at it suspiciously as it flashed an unfamiliar number. She pulled out into traffic, letting it go to voicemail, heading downtown to find her way to the interstate to pick up Trixie when it rang again, the same number blinking up at her from the digital display.

With a frown, Chloe hit the answer button, remembering with some concern Trixie’s slip up earlier in regards to Penelope. After a moment, the line clicked on, and she answered, “Hello, Chloe Decker speaking.”

A woman’s voice, warm and friendly, sounded through the speaker. “Ah, hello, Miss Decker. I’m glad to finally get a hold of you. Are you available to speak?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, flicking a glance over the phone again, “and who is this?”

“My name is Britney Pham. I’m actually calling you on behalf of Mr. Morningstar. I believe you’ve had some correspondence from him recently?”

She laughed a little, disbelief creeping into her tone. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

There was a pause, and then, “I’m sorry, but this is Miss Chloe Decker, correct?”

“Yes, it’s me,” she said with a sigh. “You guys really don’t know how to take a hint, do you?”

“On the contrary, Mr. Morningstar has requested I contact you specifically in regards to your response from the other day. He wishes to extend an apology if his gesture, while genuinely intended, caused professional distress and to assure you formal compensation has been dispensed to the studio as necessary.”

She huffed a little. “Damage was kind of done, but I suppose I appreciate that if it gets John off my back. And you are?”

“I am the PR coordinator and media representative for 6669 Productions. I felt it better to reach out to you personally given the unseemly nature of our previous exchange.”

“It’s appreciated, but before you break out into whatever spiel you have at the ready, you should know my answer is going to be the same.”

“You seem very certain of that.”

“Certain as sunshine in L.A.,” Chloe responded glibly, adjusting her sunglasses as she craned her neck and signaled to merge.

“In your response, you said numbers weren’t the problem. I relayed that information to Mr. Morningstar, and he agrees that the problem is that we are underestimating the value of the services rendered. He’s prepared to go up.”

The women on the line then rattled off a number that caught Chloe like a left hook, startling her into a wide swerve she corrected quickly as the vehicle in the other lane blared its horn loudly. She stuttered into a laugh, high-pitched, focusing on the highway in front of her, the only thing that seemed grounded in this surreal moment.

“That’s outrageous.”

“I assure you I am completely serious, Miss Decker. Mr. Morningstar is an aggressive negotiator but an honest one.”

The number was impressive. Tempting, even, the way coffee made with real cream and sugar or skipping pilates was, but she knew also that the long-term cost outweighed the benefits. With a sigh, she glanced to her right, signaling as she switched lanes to reach another on-ramp.

“Listen, I am… _very_ flattered by this offer, but I must reiterate - in fact, I must _stress_ that my days as a performer are done. Kaput. It is simply not possible given the present circumstances of my life.”

Miss Pham hummed a little on the other end with a disappointment inflected with something sly and disingenuous, like she had heard this refrain before and knew the chorus that followed. It was the kind of feeling she had dealing with agents in the past, the kind who felt they had the full deck in hand while their opponent had only the cards dealt, and her mouth pushed into a hard frown.

“Look, I’m not sure why this is such a big deal. Surely, there are thousands of other twenty-something girls here who will gladly cosplay ‘Angel Love’ for him if he wants. It seems a little excessive to pursue somebody like me, especially when you’re tossing around numbers comparable to L.A. real estate. Blonde haired, blue eyed women are not in short supply in the Los Angeles area, if you get my drift.”

“There are thousands of wannabe starlets in this town,” Miss Pham agreed, “but there’s only one Chloe Decker, and that’s the real source of my employer’s interest. Lucifer Morningstar is a man of wealth _and_ taste. Only the best of the best will do. Knock-offs aren’t what he’s interested in. He wants the real deal.” Chloe heard the drum of pen against a table, then, switching tack, the woman’s tone grew more amenable and confidential, “Perhaps, we need to consider alternative options beyond money. Mr. Morningstar is a flexible negotiator. If other options exist — ”

“They don’t,” she said firmly. Wanting to soften the blow, but cautious in what she revealed, she added, “Please understand that this is not a reflection of any animosity I have toward Mr. Morningstar or your studio. It’s just that my family situation does not allow for me to pursue further filmmaking in any professional guard if it requires me to be in front of a camera.”

On the line, she heard Pham tap her pen again, the rhythm slower and more thoughtful this time. She entertained the delusion for the moment that she had managed to break through the brick wall Lucifer Morningstar had put up before her resistance. After a moment, the tapping stopped.

“Well, Miss Decker, it seems that we’ve come to quite the impasse, here.”

“Which I told you would happen in my email.”

“Perhaps, but Mr. Morningstar would hardly have gotten where he was today if he was so easily discouraged. I’m sure you can appreciate that as a businesswoman, yourself.”

“I would appreciate it more if he learned boundaries,” she said dryly. “For a guy interested in fulfilling desires, he certainly seems adamant about ignoring mine.”

“That’s assuming we know what we truly want. Mr. Morningstar is just a man who likes to help people realize theirs.”

She huffed a little, shaking her head. “Well, ‘good intentions’ aside, I think I’ve realized mine plenty well enough, thank you.”

“Well, I certainly won’t waste any more of your time, then. You have a good day, Miss Decker.”

The phone abruptly clicked off. Chloe glanced over at it in shock, seeing the screen fade to default dial up connection, before turning her eyes back to the road. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, speeding to catch up to ongoing traffic. She drove forward, feeling like she was driving fast but getting nowhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fixed the formatting issues that caused sentences to drop off in the last one, so hopefully that's resolved. The kind of stuff you miss when you punch out waaaay too much writing in one month, friends.


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